My earliest memory in the kitchen is watching my mum peel apples when I was six, noticing every movement of her hands as they held the knife and turned the apple, and wondering if I'd ever do it as well as her. What stayed with me was the anticipation, watching ingredients take time to transform into something delicious.
I found a simple joy in sourdough. There's a completeness in taking the simplest components (flour, water, salt) and transforming them into something beautiful. I loved the combination of intellect (measured quantities, planning the temperature of dough and oven) with feeling (the smell of dough fermenting, how it responds to touch, the heat of the oven). It uses mind and body at the same time, and the result arrives within 48 hours, so there's plenty of opportunity to refine. Winemakers only get one opportunity per year to dance with the fermentation process. Breadmakers can do it every day.
"You don't eat my food? You don't love me! And you'll make me fat." That's what my Nonna used to say, sitting at the table and sadly knocking it with her hand, whenever I didn't finish everything she'd cooked. It's a great illustration of how food equates to love, among other things. I agree with her: making food for people is essentially about sharing love. My grandparents grew most of the food for their family, and there's a reverence that comes from that. I can forgive the guilt-tripping, because I know it came from a good place.
Winning MasterChef was less a sudden realisation than a slow process, that sense of imposter syndrome many people can relate to. It forced me to notice all the ways I was unkind to myself, the negative self-talk I'd assumed was normal, like the water fish swim in. I came to see "nice guy" as a mask, something we do when we care so much about other people's opinions that we're afraid to express our truth. That applied to me. There was power in the parts of myself I'd buried, and to function at my best I needed to open the doors and become a more whole person. It wasn't easy, and some of what I found went against who I thought I was.
“My worst habit is something I’m expert at: self-criticism.”
Working in a recycling centre after MasterChef probably gave me humility. I remember customers coming in and saying "Oh my god, what are you doing here?!" It also showed me the less attractive side of our modern lifestyle, at a time when my then-teenage daughter and I were deeply concerned about the environment. And I was struggling, and needed the structure of a regular job where I could hide away and work on myself.
I said a hard no to a last-minute date change for a TV appearance shortly after MasterChef, which would have wrecked a family trip. It was tough to stand my ground, but when I did, it felt like the earth shook under my feet and everything looked different. I’ve kept that lesson. Recently I said no to Friday evenings at the local market, where I’ve served plant-based Mexican food for the last four years, to make space for Sanctum 7 preparation, and my week is much more balanced.
I've lived off-grid for four years in a converted 40-foot shipping container that I designed and built myself. I love the sun streaming in through every window, the solar panels providing my electricity, the roof windows above my bed for watching the stars, and a rammed-earth wall that helps me feel connected to the earth. It's been a process of appreciating a small space tailored to me, with houseplants bringing Life around me.
Aaron Brunet’s off-the-grid shipping container
